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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jessie was more hyper than alert.
When she pulled up near the Landing Strip, the bar on Victorywhere Pete Vasquez was supposedly holed up, she had to remind herself not to just barrel into the place.
The cops hadn’t arrived yet so she tried to formulate a plan. Burnside had sent her a mug shot of Vasquez so she knew who she was looking for. Maybe she could sidle up to him and ask a few questions before he realized who he was dealing with. But that would require time to set him at ease—time she didn’t have.
She decided to just go in and figure something out on the fly. As she opened her car door, she heard the sirens. For half a second, she considered sprinting into the bar before the police arrived and trying to whisk Vasquez away before they entered. But she knew the idea was ridiculous. Vasquez had no reason to go with her and she couldn’t physically force him to.
It was moot anyway. A stream of black-and-white cars was already approaching in the distance. At this point, she’d never even get inside the club before they saw her. She closed the car door, quickly texted Ryan “Valley cops are arriving—stuck outside,” and waited to see how it all played out.
Three squad cars and an unmarked sedan pulled up in front of the bar and everyone hopped out. Among them were Sergeant Costabile and a youngish-looking man with short blond hair in plainclothes who she assumed was Detective Strode.
A patron loitering outside the front door saw them coming, yanked open the door, and ran inside. Even from across the street, Jessie could hear a voice shouting, “Pig raid! Pigs outside!”
The cops exchanged anxious looks and picked up the pace as all but one of them hurried inside. While the remaining officer stationed himself in front of the door, two additional squad cars sped down the street and screeched to a halt. Jessie watched them scramble out as well. Her attention was suddenly diverted by movement in the alley behind the bar.
Multiple people must have been escaping through the back exit. They were now racing through the alley back toward the main street. Unfortunately for them, the cops who had just arrived hadn’t entered the bar yet and were standing on the sidewalk just in time to meet them.
“Freeze!” one of them shouted. “Everyone stay where you are with your hands up.”
A few patrons who hadn’t yet made it out of the alley to the front of the bar heard the instruction, stopped, spun around, and headed back in the direction they’d come. Just before he turned away from her, Jessie was able to see that one of them was Pete Vasquez. He rushed to the chain-link fence behind the bar. A few people were scaling it. He appeared to consider the idea before changing his mind and turning left down the alley that ran behind the strip center next to the bar.
Jessie turned on her engine and eased out onto the road, hoping not to draw the attention of the uniformed officers busy with the folks holding up their hands. One cop glanced in her direction but didn’t seem interested in the worried-looking white woman trying to leave the scary scene. Jessie kept the concerned look on her face until she turned right onto Tujung Avenue. She pulled over to the side, turned off her headlights, and waited.
Only twenty seconds later, Vasquez came into view, walking briskly but “casually” down the alley, desperately trying not to look over his shoulder. The guy, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, was clearly winded. He kept swiping his longish black hair out of his eyes and looked like he might trip over the cowboy boots he was wearing.
Jessie got out of her car and walked toward him, pretending to look at her phone but evaluating him as she moved. He was about five foot seven and a sloppy 180 pounds. She had him by three inches, and though he was a good forty pounds heavier than her, she doubted he knew how to effectively use it. She reminded herself not to underestimate him despite his unimposing appearance.
They were only about five feet apart when he finally seemed to notice her. She kept her head down, feigning obliviousness, and continued straight toward him. They were about to collide when he let out a “hey!” that she deliberately ignored, stumbling into him. She “accidentally” grabbed him for support, knocking him over as she “fell” to the ground.
“Sorry,” she said apologetically as she offered a sheepish smile and put her phone in her pocket. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”
She popped up quickly and offered her hand to him. He looked like he had been weighing whether or not to yell at her. He was obviously pissed but didn’t seem to want to attract attention.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he finally said, apparently choosing discretion as he extended his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks,” she said as she pulled him up. “Pete, is it?”
His eyes widened in surprise at the sound of his name and Jessie had her semi-official confirmation that she had the right guy. She wrenched her hand loose from his and he fell back, his butt landing hard on the concrete. Before he had time to do anything other than grunt, she’d pulled out her weapon and had it aimed directly at him.
“Hi, Pete,” she said calmly. “My name’s Jessie Hunt. I work for the LAPD. And I need you stick around. I have a few questions for you.”
In the distance, she saw several cops burst out of the back entrance of the Landing Strip. Her breathing suddenly quickened. She guessed she had less than a minute before they saw her with Vasquez and ran over.
“Whatever it is, I don’t know anything,” Vasquez spat belligerently.
“Pete, I don’t think you understand the serious situation you’re in. Time is short so I can only explain this once. I’m investigating the murder of a teenage girl. She was stabbed to death last night. You just pawned her laptop a few doors down. That makes you the most likely suspect. In about forty-five seconds, the cops who busted into the bar are going to arrest you for that murder. I can’t help you after that. But right now I can.”
“How?” he asked, all trace of obstinacy gone as he looked back down the alley and saw the same thing she’d already noticed: three men in uniform charging toward them.
“I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t kill her. But I need to know how you got that laptop.”
“What about my Miranda rights?” he demanded.
“I’m not a cop, Pete,” she said, holstering her gun. “I’m a profiler. I’m trying to find this girl’s killer. If you didn’t do that, you don’t have to worry about me testifying about some computer theft. Last chance, twenty seconds. How did you get the laptop?”
“Freeze up there,” she heard a voice in the distance yell at them.
